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Title: Self-Destruction
Category: angst
Pairing: friendship (no slash! no romance!)
Rating: PG-13 (because of some language and various intense scenarios)
Warnings: the team searches for a rapist so there’s a rape case description(nothing graphic though), slight language, minor spoiler for L.D.S.K. (very small, tiny, only a sentence or two, hardly noticeable, but I’m being cautious)
Summary: It’s been over a month since Reid’s captivity by William Lee and the doctors are finally ready to release him from the hospital. But Lee didn’t leave only physical scarring on the young profiler. Battling the psychological trauma, Reid ventures down a path of self-destruction, trusting no one, including his saviors.
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and/or sent me messages for other fics! It’s so awesome to get that kind of feedback! You are all amazing!
Author’s Notes: This is a sequel to the ‘Sins of the Father’ fic I published on 7-22-06, and I recommend that you read that one first. I pushed this one out after much positive feedback from its prequel. Funny thing is that this was only supposed to be 2,000-3,000 words long! Much love to my beta-reader, Chemins, who inspired me when I felt like giving up, who became my muse when plot faltered, and who is my best friend.
Please please please please please (shameless begging) read and review (especially criticisms). I often go and update stories based on what reviewers leave, and it helps in future writings (for example, due to a message left for ‘Sins of the Father’, I actually went back and not only changed things in that fic to accommodate the reader, I also added certain things in this fic especially for that reader).
Disclaimer: Are these really necessary? No one on this site has any rights to what they’re writing or else they wouldn’t be posting on said site, right? But, I guess I’ll go along with it. I don’t personally own one scrap of Criminal Minds (well, except for season 1 on DVD thanks to tivo). No infringement is meant, really. Intended for entertainment purposes only.
Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster; and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you.”
The memorable drumming of gnarled fingers on old wood continued, coming closer to the agent as a soft dragging thud accompanied it. He moved away from the sound that petrified him, closer to the edge of the bed he lay in. Bloodshot eyes continued their vigilant search through the darkness as he sucked in his breath, afraid to make a noise, the terrible tapping the only sound he heard.
Continuing to move across the soft mattress, he abruptly lost his footing and loudly fell off the side, pulling the soft, white sheet with him as he landed on the hard, cold tiled floor. The sudden noise terrified him further and he backed himself into a corner, pulling both knees to his chest and ducking his head into his quivering form, afraid of the retribution of his actions.
He felt slight vibrations through his spine as someone ran across the room; the area was suddenly cast in a bright and merciless light, causing the man to retract further into his cocoon, cowering with fear, his nails digging into the flesh of his legs.
“Reid! Are you okay?” a familiar voice exclaimed, rushing to his side, kneeling in front of him. The small man cringed as two strong hands gently clasped his shoulders.
“He was here,” Reid faintly whispered from beneath his arms, his voice shaking as he gripped his legs tighter.
“Who was here?” Gideon softly coaxed, though he already knew the answer.
His dark eyes peered at the man before him, concern for his agent’s condition steadily growing. Slowly withdrawing one hand, he rubbed his unshaven face with grief, the stubbly bristle reminding the man he’d been neglecting himself.
Shadowy circles under his eyes marked his unceasing vigil, as did his relaxed attire, donning dark jeans and a casual burgundy men’s jumper.
“The man- the old man. I-I could hear him. He was watching, from the dark, tapping the cane, just like back at that room.” Reid’s voice was panic-stricken and childlike as he rocked his weak frame back and forth, despite the reassuring hand on his shoulder.
Gideon wanted to pull the man into a tight embrace, promising to protect the boy from unseen dangers, to set right the many wrongs that had been perpetrated.
With Reid’s every scream from a night terror, sob during a nightmare, and grimace from even the gentlest touch, a simple yet terrifying thought ingrained itself in Gideon’s mind, I caused this.
The guilt was incredible, devastating the veteran more than he cared to admit. He slept very little anymore; dreams only held dismal revelations. Nausea kept him from eating much, as visions of Reid’s bloody body lying on that unforgiving basement floor plagued him constantly.
“Spencer,” Gideon began in an authoritative and fatherly tone, hoping it would help calm the obviously frightened Reid. “Look at me, Spencer,” he gently commanded. The small man’s body stopped trembling, relaxing somewhat in Gideon’s presence. “There’s no one here,” the veteran soothed. Though calm words passed his lips, his mind screamed at him, once again alerting the hostage of his blame.
Reid carefully brought his face out from hiding, peeking like a frightened child around the man before him, fresh tears on his warm cheeks reflecting the light emanating from the hospital ceiling. The young agent’s face burned crimson with shame at his actions.
He was humiliated that he had allowed Gideon to see him in such a state, weak and broken. Reid respected and admired the other profiler, and constantly tried to prove himself, pushing his limits with each new case.
Disappointment was indeed in Gideon’s eyes, though in himself, not in the hurting figure before him. Why didn’t I protect him?
“I’m sorry,” Reid managed tentatively, choking back tears, forcing the other to lean in close to hear the whispered words. He felt like a failure as he sat on the chilly hospital floor, in the flimsy gown supplied, crying out in fear of non-existent monsters.
“Reid,” Gideon started carefully, his heart breaking at the sight of the young genius, “You’ve got nothing to be-”
“No! This is not how a twenty-four year old FBI agent acts, Gideon!” Reid bawled out emotionally, tears freely falling from his sunken eyes as he hopelessly gazed at the startled investigator. “I’m acting like a child,” he added, his voice breaking with the soft words, eyes suddenly cast downward, “I always act like a child.”
Gideon replaced a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder, near tears himself at the cruel words Reid muttered and somehow believed. It wasn’t true; the senior agent knew as much, and it pained him how the younger devalued himself so severely.
He cleared his throat softly, burying the tears; Gideon had to remain strong, for everyone. “Spencer,” he again used the agent’s first name, taking the man’s chin in his hand and turning his face upwards. “You’re going to be just fine,” he promised making eye contact, Reid’s solemn orbs silently staring back.
Gideon suddenly stood, grunting as the action stressed his aging joints. “Now, you need some help getting back in bed?” he offered, changing the subject and mood of the dialogue. It was neither the time nor the place for either to battle their emotionally despairing demons.
Reid nodded miserably and Gideon gingerly helped him to his feet, steadying the man as his right leg began to shake, continuing to recover from muscle atrophy. Delicately, the older man’s strong hand laced around the lanky frame of the younger, resting on his waist. Gideon’s other hand tenderly clasped Reid’s wrist and pulled his thin arm across the veteran’s broad shoulder, easily supporting the lithe form.
The two hobbled slowly back to the unwelcoming bed; Reid was somewhat able to stand on his healing leg, though tremendous pain crippled him when he tried unassisted. The doctors, in response, prescribed Vicodin and a cane, vowing, however, that he would no longer need the walking implement inside a week.
Reid carefully lowered himself onto the plastic-covered mattress and cautiously pulled his right leg up, easing it against the material beneath him. Gideon hauled the other sheet from the floor and pulled it atop the settling agent.
“Need anything?” he asked casually, trying to dispel any insecurities Reid felt. The other shook his head simply, wanting to forget about everything. Reid closed his eyes and began recounting various trivial facts, forcing his mind to occupy itself with menial information to help block the rising memories and emotions.
Gideon resumed his position in the oversized chair in the corner of the room. “Try and get some sleep, Reid,” he urged quietly, intensely aware of the need for sympathy and understanding.
He silently watched as Reid fitfully slept, unconscious yelps marking his terrifying nightmares as hidden assailants brutalized him.
It was his last night in the hospital, doctors decreeing he would be discharged the next day. Reid’s physical prognosis looked good; physical therapy and a little time and the bodily evidence of the trauma would fade away.
But his psychological well-being looked to be in far worse shape. Night terrors plagued him on a semi-regular basis, vivid nightmares filling in the gaps. And he continued to refuse to talk about the hellish captivity.
Gideon hoped that returning Reid to a normal routine would help his friend to heal.
Gideon led the way, making sure obstructions were free from the path of the youngest. Reid limped in, partially supporting himself with a cane, Hotch close by with vigilant eyes.
“Home sweet home,” Gideon supposed with a tired smile, deftly dropping the keys on a small wooden table by the door.
Reid’s hollowed eyes peacefully regarded the room, taking in the home with newfound appreciation.
Someone had cleaned, that much was obvious; a pine scent hovered in the air, there were vacuum marks on the carpet, and even the two-year-old coffee stain on his desk was gone. Reid imagined his teammates traipsing through the abode, fingering his possessions as they tidied.
His eyes rested on a small photo gingerly dusted and replaced on the coffee table. Reid’s mother’s inanimate stare bore holes in the young man’s face. He cringed as he envisioned the conversation the profilers would have shared while cleaning, peering into his personal life.
Light suddenly enveloped the home as Reid imagined Morgan switching on the floor lamp. “Looks like Reid’s place,” he commented with a sly smile, moving from the doorway to allow Elle and Garcia passage in.
“Wow, it’s- it’s exactly what I would have expected, actually,” Garcia stammered, taking in the scene.
“Let’s get to work,” Elle sighed, picking up a small box Morgan had conveniently left by the door. She and Garcia emptied the contents on the kitchen counter, spreading everything needed to immaculate the apartment before them.
“I thought you were here to help,” she complained to Morgan, who had begun to dissect the treasures littering the living area.
“I am; I’m here for moral support,” he teased, grinning at the ladies.
“I didn’t think you had morals,” Garcia responded blithely with a wink. Morgan chuckled at the jest, his smirk broadening.
“Of course I do,” he asserted, turning his attention to one of the large mahogany bookcase where Reid housed a myriad of books and manuals. “Someone has to keep you two honest.”
Elle rolled her eyes at the sentiment, though a smile graced her lips. “You are honestly lazy,” she decided, beginning to wipe the marble covered counter-tops.
Quiet minutes passed as the three made their way throughout Reid’s house, cleaning and scanning. Unconsciously, they began forming a profile, analyzing his possessions, discovering the inner workings of the resident genius.
“Hey,” Morgan called at one point from a small study cramped with case files, more books, and a desk. “What’d ya find hot stuff?” Garcia queried as she walked past the room.
“Reid’s got hundreds of case files in here,” Morgan pointed out, opening a manila folder and briefly reading its contents.
“Get out of there!” Garcia jokingly berated, a look of faux shock on her face.
He closed the folder and replaced it in a file drawer. “He’s got them all sorted,” he mused aloud, thumbing through a section.
“So? Some people do that, ya know?” she mocked, brushing a rogue strand of hair back behind her ear.
Morgan glared at her behind his smile, obviously amused at her comment. “Not like this, Garcia. They’re alphabetized, sorted in descending order by year, organized by state, then grouped by severity. He’s then catalogued them by type of offender, re-alphabetized by lead investigator, and further tabbed by legal action currently needed.”
Garcia shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “He’s thorough,” she assessed, walking away. “Which is more than I can say for you,” she hollered down the hall.
Morgan laughed as he left the room, “Man, we gotta get you a girl, Reid.”
Reid’s mind continued the scene and he watched as Morgan walked back to the living room, stopping by the coffee table where he carefully lifted a small photo of a petite woman in a wheelchair.
Yeah, that’s how the conversation would’ve happened, he intoned silently as the imagined Morgan disappeared, forcing Reid back to the present.
A small sign hung above the double windows overlooking the complex he lived in. “Welcome home,” Reid mouthed as he read, smiling at the poster.
He was home, but something felt wrong to the agent. A chill had followed him from the cold dark room in William Lee’s house, had continued with him through his hospital stay, and had made itself welcome in his home.
His smile turned to a frown, remembering the night he had been attacked, standing in nearly the same place. Reid vividly recalled the evening; he arrived home late that night, paperwork keeping him at Quantico until nearly one in the morning. The doorbell rang only minutes after he arrived, but he’d been so tired, Reid didn’t think twice about the timing of the visitation.
Matthew had claimed to be a new neighbor, and, after seeing Reid arrive home, decided to introduce himself. The ruse had worked, and the agent unchained his front door. They talked for only a few moments before the unwelcome guest pushed his way into the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Reid had little time to react, though, as the barrel of a gun struck the back of his head hard, forcing him to the floor unconscious.
“You alright?” Hotch probed, immediately taking note of the change in Reid’s behavior and moving to the man’s side.
Reid’s nod was almost imperceptive; he fiercely gripped the cane’s handle and closed his eyes as the memories flooded back. “It’s just a headache. I think I need to sit down.”
Hotch gently took his arm, careful not to disturb the bruises and burns continuing to heal. Reid angrily pulled away. “I’ve got it!” he bit out at the agent furiously. Hotch took an involuntary step back, startled at the exclamation from the usually meek genius.
Questions rolled in the swirling maelstrom that was Reid’s mind as he limped toward the couch. Mood swings, headaches, intrusive and unwelcome thoughts… classic manifestations of psychological trauma, Reid noted, examining his own behavior.
Hotch hesitantly glanced at Gideon, their eyes connecting in some silent consultation regarding the staggering agent.
“What?” Reid grilled still angry, as he reached the sofa. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it!” he barked, grunting in pain as he sank into the soft leather. He was frustrated that everyone seemed to be communicating with each other but not with him.
“You’ve been through a lot,” Gideon began reluctantly, reciting a prepared speech he’d been working on all day. “No one can begin to understand what you’re feeling. It’s okay to need some help and to take time healing.”
Hotch’s eyes met with Reid’s, a compassionate and understanding gaze passing from him. Memories of the younger agent’s cries of pain at the hospital echoed in his subconscious. Though he tried, Hotch hadn’t been able to wipe away the look of fear and horror Reid had given the team when they found him slowly bleeding to death at Lee’s home.
Hotch knew Reid was overly introverted, tending to remain private and disclosing little, if any, personal information. It had to be killing his friend that so many knew the intimate details of Reid’s time with Lee.
“You still have plenty of leave left,” Hotch added. “We’ll work it out,” he reassured the best he could.
Reid let his head fall back, closing his eyes once again as the pressure steadily grew and his headache worsened.
‘You’ve been through a lot.’
The simple words echoed in his mind, bringing to light memories he had tried to suppress. The pain his body endured was nearly gone, save his left leg, which was, in actuality, nearly fully mobile. And, though he knew it was unhealthy, Reid had been able to temporarily bury the memories and salvage what was left of his fragile psyche, though he knew he couldn’t keep that up for long.
What he hadn’t been able to escape was the pity; sympathetic stares had trailed him since he awoke. His pain wasn’t his own; his trauma had become too public. Even the media had become involved, though JJ was able to placate that storm.
“I just need to be alone for a while,” Reid admitted while rubbing his temples, his tone much softer than before. His every step had been shadowed since he’d awoken, and the loner deeply valued his privacy. He lightly caressed the bottle of Vicodin in his jacket pocket, twisting the small container against the soft fabric.
Opening his eyes he saw Gideon and Hotch both frowning. “I’ll be fine,” Reid promised, securing the statement with the best smile he had. “Really.”
Neither of the veteran agents liked the idea of Reid staying in his apartment alone, especially with the vivid nightmares he’d been prone to.
“Reid, I think it’d be better if someone stays with you,” Hotch advised, hoping his friend knew what he said was out of concern.
The youngest swallowed the anger that immediately coursed through his body at Hotch’s comment. He wanted to be left alone. Can’t anyone understand that?
“Hotch, I’m okay, really. I’m going to bed as soon as you leave anyway. I haven’t had any time to just…” he sighed, “I don’t know. I’d rather be alone is all,” his voice softly pleaded, hoping to sway the men.
Several moments passed as Gideon mulled things over. “Alright,” he grudgingly conceded. Hotch’s brows raised in surprise at the senior agent’s bowing. He knew the other to be protective and father-like; it was an unusual occurrence for him to give-in.
“Call if you need anything, okay?” Hotch instructed, as the two gathered their things. “Morgan’s coming by tomorrow afternoon with your prescription,” he reminded.
Reid nodded, desperate for them to leave. “I’ll be fine,” he again reassured. “Back to work next week,” he promised.
Gideon grabbed the door and held it open as Hotch walked out. He took one last look at his agent, making sure he was actually home.
“I’m sorry, Reid,” Gideon apologized gently to the man sitting on the couch.
Reid only nodded, not understanding why the older agent said the words, but recognizing his need to express the sentiment.
“I wish I could’ve protected you,” Gideon added, the utterance not reaching the ears of the younger agent; he waved and walked out the door, shutting it tightly behind him.
Reid listened for the familiar sound of the elevator arriving, waited as he heard it carry its passengers to the ground floor, then watched the two agents cross the street to their vehicle.
A relieved sigh escaped his mouth as he stretched his long body along the couch and pulled the pills from his pocket.
He uncapped the bottle and poured the contents into his hand. His fingers toyed with the white tablets for several minutes as he began to process his situation.
The hospital had sent a counselor to him during his stay, encouraging the man to talk about the experience, but it was too fresh, too recent. He wasn’t able to think at all really. Every outward stimulus reminded him of the room; every sound was Lee asking another question, every touch was Matthew beating him for failing to respond.
Besides, he thought idly, searching for justification, the team doesn’t need me searching out my inner child; they need me back at work. Just another excuse.
Reid’s leg began throbbing, an activity the medication was prescribed to prevent. He grimaced, but continued to paw the pills, his thoughts drifting closer to the dreaded darkness that he worked to avoid.
A well-known rapping resonated in his ears once again, and his body recoiled in a conditioned response.
No, it’s not real, he silently yelled at himself. Intrusive thoughts, paranoia, even delusions are a common way for the mind to handle stress, remember? He realized he sounded like a textbook, methodical and exact.
He gingerly took two of the pills between his fingers, eyed them for a moment, then dry-swallowed the medication. Placing the pill bottle on the floor beside him, he fell back, allowing the arm of the couch to cradle his throbbing head.
Reid closed his eyes, forcing himself to remain still, trying to ignore the sound his mind projected of Lee’s cane hitting the floor. Within minutes it began to taper off, the Vicodin melding itself with his system, dulling his senses. Blessed sleep finally overtook him.
A young woman stepped into the hall from a neighboring apartment as Morgan beat on the wood barrier. Holding a small dog in her arms, she locked her door.
“Excuse me,” she murmured to Morgan softly as she brushed by the agent’s pressed slacks on her way to the elevator.
She stopped suddenly and walked back toward the profiler. “Are you here to see Spencer?” she peeped brightly with a large smile.
Morgan nodded, surprised that she stopped to speak with him. Why aren’t my neighbors this friendly? he wondered.
“I don’t think he’s home,” she informed while attaching the leash to her dog’s collar. “He didn’t look so good earlier. What happened?”
The agent stopped, the girl’s high-pitched, ultra-peppy voice beginning to grate his ears. “You saw him?” he checked.
She nodded, her blonde curls bouncing wildly. “Yeah, I ran into him on my way to breakfast. He had some nasty bruises, claiming he fell down some stairs, but I don’t believe that for a second. I watch the X-Files! Well, I mean, I don’t think that the FBI really has an alien unit, that’d be more of a homeland security issue. I tried explaining to Spence that the public should be told what the government is doing with the alien situation, but he just wouldn’t listen. But the FBI never listens to me! Oh wait, you’re one too, aren’t you? You’re an FBI agent! Oh, you must be! Hardly anyone else comes to see him. Do you get to carry a gun? Can I see it? Hey, Tutzy and me were just heading to the park, you wanna come?”
Morgan’s eyes were wide as he backed away from the young woman. “Miss, I think you should get going,” he advised. She looked hurt for a moment, but quickly shrugged her shoulders and headed down the hall once again.
He hurriedly pulled the keys from his pocket, while carefully watching the retreating stranger, mentally taking back the comment he made about the neighbors being friendly.
The door unbolted as Morgan twisted the thin metal key, but the chain-lock was engaged on the inside.
“Reid!” he yelled frantically, tying to somehow dislodge the chain. Morgan knew he still had to be inside, unless Reid left through a window; From the sixth floor?
Horrifying thoughts raced through his mind as he thought of the dangers that faced the limping doctor. Morgan reached around and fingered the chain quickly; it was too thick to break. The door isn’t, though, he decided. The agent leaned back and kicked at the offending wooden barrier, effectively breaking the chain from the frame, as well as disconnecting the upper hinges from the oak slab. He looked around wildly, trying to find his friend.
“Reid?” he called out desperately once again, running from room to room, stopping at the closed bedroom door.
He flung open the wide door; his heart dropped when he saw his friend unconscious on the bed. “Reid!” he exclaimed, rushing to his side and immediately grabbing the younger’s limp wrist. A steady pulse pumped against Morgan’s fingers, causing hope to once again return.
“Reid! Wake up!” he ordered, trying to rouse his friend. A groan escaped the younger man’s lips, and he rolled himself onto his back. “What time is it?” he grumbled from beneath a large pillow he pulled over his head.
“About 3:30,” Morgan estimated, tugging the cushion away furiously. “What happened?” he interrogated, angry at the panic he felt moments ago.
Reid held a protective hand in front of his face, shielding himself from the intruding light cascading down from his window. “I just took the pills,” he innocently croaked out.
Morgan scanned the room, searching for the Vicodin container he knew Reid’s doctor had sent home the day before. His eyes stopped on the orange bottle, lying upside, just underneath the bed. It was empty.
“Did you take all these?” he questioned, holding the empty bottle before Reid.
The doctor’s eyes made tiny slits, not willing to let much light in. “Yeah?” he said weakly, trying to remember what had happened. The memories of the torture had returned, but Reid found the Vicodin could suppress the recollections.
“It hurt, Morgan,” he explained, attempting to sit up, struggling with dizziness and dehydration.
The other man let out an exacerbated sigh, though he was caught off guard at the justification. “You’ve got to watch how many of these you take. The bottle I just brought you has thirty pills, three times as many as the one the doc gave you yesterday,” Morgan reprimanded. “It’s lethal stuff, man.”
Reid groaned loudly and laid back, annoyed at the lecture. Just what he needs, Morgan admonished himself, someone else telling him what to do.
“It’s going to be painful, Reid,” he said thoughtfully. “Take it easy on the leg though, and go slow on the Vicodin, okay?”
Reid nodded grimly. If only he knew that it’s not the pain in my leg that I’m fighting.
JJ discretely glanced at her watch while tapping her foot impatiently. She leaned over to Gideon as she noted the time. “Should we start without him?” she asked quietly, smoothing her dark suit as she re-crossed her legs.
The seasoned profiler straightened in his seat slightly at the question, wondering the same thing. The youngest agent was over forty-five minutes late for their newest case briefing, unusual for the punctual man.
Gideon had been troubled by the minor Vicodin overdose three days before when a worried Morgan phoned in Reid’s condition. Since then, however, the team had kept closer tabs on the youngest, continually calling and checking in.
He said today, Gideon recalled, replaying the conversation he had with his youngest agent earlier that morning. Reid had wanted to feel independent and self-reliant, insisting on driving himself to work. I should’ve picked him up, Gideon scolded.
“He’s part of the team and should hear the briefing,” he finally decided softly. The Quantico BAU had tremendous results, and Gideon had no hesitations labeling the group as the best set of profilers in the western hemisphere. The results, however, came due to the team’s cohesiveness, an element the group lacked without all its members.
JJ nodded reluctantly. She deeply sympathized with the pain Reid, and the team, had gone through, but sociopaths wouldn’t wait for the young genius to heal.
No one had heard the door open, but everyone turned as a small voice apologized from the back. “Sorry I’m late,” Reid voiced quietly.
Gideon couldn’t help but smile at the soft entrance, his rising anxiety placated at seeing the familiar face.
“You’re just in time,” Hotch assured, not wanting the agent to feel worse for simply being late. “JJ was just getting ready to tell us about a new case.”
Reid lowered his head as he slowly limped to the table, using the cane for support. He was sure the team had been upset at his late entry, how could they not be?
Reid slid easily into a large chair next to Morgan as JJ began her presentation.
“This is Lisa Harris, currently a 23 year old senior at NVU. She was raped four years ago on campus,” JJ read loudly from her file while a picture of a young and attractive girl centered on the screen in the round table room.
“NVU?” Elle inquired.
“A liberal arts university just outside D.C.,” Hotch supplied.
JJ nodded her appreciation and continued; she clicked the remote and pictures of two other women tiled with the first.
“This is Kayla Emery, a 22 year old senior at NVU, and Rebecca Rodriguez, a 21 year old junior. Both were raped three years ago on campus.”
Click. Three more faces joined with the previous.
“This is Miranda Jones, 22 years old, Samantha Coleman, also 22, and Anna Clark, 20 years old. All three are juniors and were raped two years ago.”
Click. Three photos slid onto the screen.
“Jessica Gibson, a 22 year old senior, and Catherine Young and Britney Andrews, both 21 year old juniors. These three were raped last year at NVU.”
Click. Another face.
“And this is Tabitha Engle, a 20 year old junior, raped and killed last week at the school,” JJ finished, the ten tiled pictures forming a small morbid collage.
“Engle was the first murder victim?” Elle guessed, her lips pressed together in a thin line as she gazed miserably at the pictured woman before her.
JJ nodded while simultaneously adding more photos to the large conference room screen. “This is the scene the DC police found Sunday morning.”
Several grim pictures glared back at the profiling team, the photos indicative of an overly violent attack.
“I did an undercover stint with the DCPD before coming to the BAU; I know them, how they work. They wouldn’t have sat on this case, letting a serial rapist terrorize a college campus. Why’d they wait until now to call us?” Morgan questioned as he leaned back in his chair, remembering the officers he’d worked with.
“These victims didn’t report their rapes until after the Engle murder. No one knew there was a serial rapist,” Hotch answered calmly, characteristically scanning the members of the unit.
“Our UNSUB’s never been seen, attacking his prey from behind at night, not saying a word until he’s done. He steals the victim’s school ID card, then threatens to kill her if she says anything,” Gideon added, his head cocked to the side as his dark eyes worriedly watched the uninterested Reid at the end of the table.
“So what happened with Engle?” Morgan posed, wondering what caused the rapist to escalate to killing.
Gideon stood and began sorting the standard FBI file on the case, indicating the briefing was nearly complete; “That’s what we’re going to find out. We’re heading to D.C. Plane leaves in thirty.”
There was a general shuffling as chairs were pushed from the table and the group began to mill from the room, readying themselves for the newest assignment.
“You don’t have to go,” Gideon told Reid after the rest had left, as he supported himself against the edge of the table. The normally curious and always attentive man had remained unusually silent during the entire briefing, a fact that concerned the senior investigator.
Reid’s head snapped up from the daze, his surprised wide eyes glancing at the man, then returning to the window.
“No, I’m going,” he informed in a faint voice, his eyes glossing slightly as his mind wandered again. “I can’t keep sitting at home doing nothing.”
Gideon carefully eyed his friend, assessing if Reid was truly ready to reenter the field. The young agent looked like he hadn’t slept in days; his eyes were red and bloodshot looking far away and distant, his long fingers tapped nervously on his wrinkled pant leg, while sections of his brown hair casually fell in front of his face, casting shadows on his already darkened features.
“Please,” Reid pushed, afraid the supervisory special agent would force him back home for another week where he’d be alone with his thoughts. “I really need this, Gideon,” he furthered, stilling his nervous tics for a moment and making eye contact with the investigator.
Gideon silently relented to the plea, nodding his head in an inaudible affirmation. At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on him this way.
A familiar cruel laugh loudly resounded in his ear, jolting the man to one side in fear. The gnarled cackle pursued, and icy fingers violently seized his shoulders. He thrashed in the merciless grip despite the asphyxiation, trying desperately to push his attacker away.
The grasp on his tender arms suddenly grew vice-like, holding him firmly in place; terror shot through his system as he imagined the torture the hands would inflict.
“Reid,” Lee’s aged voice taunted in the dark. “You’ll tell me what I want to know, one way or another.”
A hand slapped his face, the harsh sting bringing tears to his eyes. “Reid!”
He jerked awake, frantically gulping in air as someone pushed him forward slightly, his chin falling to his chest.
“Lean forward and you’ll be able to breathe,” Morgan instructed, not releasing his pressure on Reid’s back.
Reid tightly closed his eyes, putting the pieces together. Another nightmare, just as vivid as the rest. He’d hoped they’d subside while on assignment, but it seemed his occupied mind had other plans.
“I’m alright,” Reid announced after half a minute, leaning back in the plane’s seat. Hotch stood in front of the young agent, his hands still resting on the thin shoulders. He was obviously concerned, almost afraid that he’d lose his friend if he released his grip.
Gideon stood near the other supervisor, their eyes scrutinizing. Reid couldn’t meet their gaze, afraid his own eyes and body language would negate his statements. “I’m fine,” he tried again to reassure.
“No you’re not,” Hotch disagreed, his voice steely and commanding. “You haven’t been. You’re not fooling anyone, Reid.”
The young investigator visibly recoiled from the statement, glaring at Hotch as if he’d betrayed him. “Get your hands off of me,” he snapped, jerking from his hold, then looking away once again.
An uncomfortable silence hung thick in the plane’s cabin as the seconds ticked by. Reid knew the team was concerned, anxious for their friend to heal and put the past behind him. However, he knew there’d be no reconciling with his inner demons as long as the others continued to worry.
Slowly, his eyes rose, meeting with Hotch’s once again as the elder man continued to watch him. “I’m sorry, Hotch,” Reid sincerely apologized, hurt by the disappointment he saw in the other.
“I didn’t mean to snap at you- at any of you. I haven’t been sleeping well…” Reid trailed off, unsure of what to say.
Hotch nodded his understanding, though still obviously trepidacious. The uneasy silence returned, and Reid searched for something to lighten the mood.
“Did you, ah, did you hit me earlier?” he asked with a small smile. A light chuckle escaped Hotch’s lips at the unexpected question as he crossed the plane.
Morgan’s hands patted Reid’s shoulder playfully. “You’re pretty tough, Reid. Not everyone can take a hit like that from ex-SWAT.”
“Derek!” a man yelled from across the parking lot, waving at the group walking in. A huge grin was pasted on Morgan’s face as the officer joined the team.
“This is detective Eric Smith,” he introduced, shaking hands with the middle-age cop. “We worked together a couple years back during a sting operation,” Morgan explained.
“So, you’re at Quantico now?” Smith asked as the group continuing its walk.
“Sure am,” Morgan supplied. “Let me introduce you to the unit. This is SSA Hotchner and SSA Gideon, and SA’s Reid and Greenaway.”
Smith nodded politely, and opened the door to the large building. “It’s good to meet ya. Oh, we’re taking the elevator to floor three,” he informed when the team had made it into the complex.
“What can you tell us about the UNSUB, detective?” Hotch questioned when the lift doors closed.
“Oh, messy case,” he shivered, shaking his head in disgust. “We’re up to thirteen vics now,” he responded.
“Thirteen? I thought there were nine,” Elle interjected.
“We’ve received four more reports since yesterday, agent Greenaway. They keep coming,” Smith reported as the doors opened, a long hallway stretching before them.
“What prompted the sudden reporting?” Morgan asked his friend, the team trudging along toward a set of double glass doors.
“After Miss Engle’s rape and murder, the boys downstairs organized a press conference. They had her parents ask for anyone with information to come forward,” Smith continued. “We got six calls within the first hour.”
Gideon shook his head with dissatisfaction. It was the perfect call, just too soon. They needed a profile to work with before forcing the UNSUB out. “Another BAU agent, Jennifer Jareau, is driving up this afternoon. She’s our media liaison and will help coordinate further press releases,” he advised with authority.
“Of course. I know the captain’ll appreciate any help,” Smith said earnestly as they reached the doors. He opened them wide, exposing the team to a whirlwind of activity. Officers hurried across the room, desk phones persistently rang, and all levels of conversation bounced across the large area.
Smith led them deeper into the chaos. “We set up a conference room in the back for the case. It’s kinda sparse, but we’ll get ya whatever’s needed,” he offered while carefully making his way past a rushing intern.
“We’ll need to see the campus,” Hotch vocalized, suddenly looking around for Reid. The younger agent was several feet behind him, easily keeping with the pace of the group, though lost in his mind once again. Hotch admonished himself for not keeping better track of him.
They reached the room; it was moderate sized, housing a large wooden table in the center, numerous wheeled chairs, and two large boards which already contained key information regarding the case.
“You’ll want to see that first then?” Smith checked. “Course your hotel rooms will be ready by noon.”
“We’ll check-in later,” Gideon decided, momentarily wondering if Reid should go ahead to the hotel; he inwardly argued with himself, determining that the young investigator would hate being left behind.
“This year’s registration placed over 22,000 undergrads on campus, with a student faculty ratio of 15 to 1,” she answered.
“What about the faculty, Ms. Vanoy?” Reid suddenly probed, speaking for the first time since the team’s arrival.
“Well, we employ hundreds of staff and professors. We adhere to all the guidelines that are required, I promise you,” she said kindly.
“Something on your mind?” Gideon explored when two students came over to chat with the favored woman.
“What if-” Reid began slowly, putting his racing thoughts into coherent sentences, “what if the UNSUB is a faculty member and has been doing this for years? Any victims who were raped over four years ago would have left or graduated by now and wouldn’t know we were investigating.”
“Or it’s a student who hasn’t been caught yet,” Morgan offered, returning to the original theory.
“Not likely. If this was a student, someone would’ve seen something unusual; a roommate coming back late, a stash of ID cards, something,” Elle offered.
“It’s college, Elle; everything’s unusual,” Morgan jabbed.
“Ms. Vanoy, what’s the code of conduct like at NVU?” Reid asked, ignoring the others as he walked to the older woman.
“It’s a safe yet usually lenient campus, Mr. Reid. We’ve adapted well to the twenty-first century, updating our rules and regulations to allow students more freedom. It’s boosted enrollment by three percent this year,” she added.
“What rules and regulations?” Reid pressed, pushing for the information he needed.
“Well, we’ve extended curfew to one in the morning this year, granted more student led functions, relaxed the dress code- you know, we’ve only followed suite, letting the larger colleges take the lead-”
“What if someone oversteps the boundaries?” Morgan inquired, interrupting the registrar.
“Well, we have a fine system in place for minor offenses, but for repeat violations of the code or grievous infractions, students face community service and possible expulsion, sometimes even criminal charges. But we don’t have much of that here,” she assured with a smile.
“Could we see the lists of current faculty and staff and past students?” Gideon requested.
“Sure, they’re back in the office though,” Vanoy answered, her stubby hand in front of her eyes blocking out the sun as she watched the group.
Gideon nodded, mentally planning what more the team could do while at the school.
“Morgan, check with the campus PD, see what they’ve got on this. Elle, ask around, get a hold of the rumors, and find out what the students know. Hotch, why don’t you and Reid check out the crime scenes; look for vantage points, similarities, and means of entry. I’m going to head back with Vanoy, see what else she knows and get those lists,” he instructed with a sigh.
Reid frowned, knowing that Hotch was meant to watch and protect the younger agent. He resented the implications, resented the constant overprotection, and resented the obvious skepticism the others held for his functionality.
He passively watched as the profilers separated, each going in a different direction to accomplish a different goal. The case suddenly seemed strange and foreign to the young investigator; college students whisked around the disassociating man, oblivious to the inner turmoil he fought.
A laugh, light and airy, taunted from the back of Reid’s mind. Lee’s raspy voice whispered dangers into his ear, urging the agent to react, demanding his cooperation.
Reid shook his head dramatically, hoping the voice in the dark would discontinue. He angrily remembered the incident on the plane earlier and shuddered at the experience, deciding not to have a repeat performance.
“What’s wrong?” Hotch asked in a determined tone, wanting Reid to admit what he was feeling. He wouldn’t push the younger, wouldn’t force him to discuss what was bothering him; Hotch knew that feeling, knew what it was to have prying eyes spy on every action made.
“It’s just my leg,” Reid lied, Lee’s words becoming unbearably loud. He frantically pulled the pill bottle from his pocket, removed two of the Vicodin capsules, then swallowed them, hoping the drug would dull the mental anguish.
Hotch took his profiler stance, carefully inspecting Reid’s body language, reading his nonverbal cues. His concern grew as the younger unhesitatingly took the pain pills with the claim that it was his leg.
The experienced agent eyed his friend, deciding on a course of action. He knew Reid’s leg would be fine in a day or two; the cane was hardly even needed.
Hotch cautiously looked him over. Small beads of sweat formed on Reid’s brow, though his shaking hands were more noticeable. He winced at some unseen agony, while his wide eyes hypervigilantly darted across the grass covered hill before the two.
The elder agent could only speculate, unsure of the origin of Reid’s discomfort. While pain in his leg would cause the physical symptoms, Hotch knew they could easily be psychosomatic, indicating a much more complicated problem.
He glowered at the lack of a conclusion, and considered voicing his concerns.
“Shouldn’t we get going?” Reid urged, interrupting Hotch’s train of thought.
The veteran mentally kicked himself for not staying more alert, realizing they still stood where the team had left them. Nodding, he began walking toward the main parking lot, the scene of the first attack.
“Just let me know if the pain gets worse,” Hotch insisted, casting a sideways glance to surreptitiously check on Reid’s progress. Surprisingly, the younger agent easily kept up with Hotch’s pace.
Reid affirmed the request while inwardly groaning, fighting the urge to rub his temples as the memories began to cease their intrusion. There’s nothing you can do about it though, he thought bitterly to himself.
As his line of sight shifted, he began to determine how the serial rapist attacked his victims. The large towering trees provided ample cover even in broad daylight, ensuring the UNSUB isolation as he awaited suitable victims.
The parking lot nearby served an easy vantage point, affording quick arrival and departure. As the large capacity student center was directly across the street, the location was ideal for serving the UNSUB’s needs.
Reid concentrated, picturing the rush of students exciting the center on a Friday night. A lone female walks out the heavy doors, her head lowered to her chest, her chin quivering. Someone rushes after her, only to be rebuffed as she jerks away, suddenly storming into the parking lot furious. He raises his hands in defeat, walking away.
The UNSUB quietly approaches her, hidden by the shadows offered by the night. Tears glisten on her cheeks as she fumbles in her purse, looking for car keys. He’s standing directly behind her, enjoying the moment as she remains unaware of his presence. The UNSUB smiles, satisfied with the victim he has chosen.
He reaches out; his gloved hands reaching from behind her, they firmly clasp over her mouth. He never says a word, pulling her into the darkness, relishing the control, the power.
Reid knows how the nightmare ends. The UNSUB sifts through the victim’s wallet when he’s done, removing her student ID card. He’ll glance at the writing before leaning forward and whispering her name into her ear. “I’ll kill you if you say anything, to anybody,” he threatens, his voice low to remain undetectable.
“Reid,” Hotch called, jolting the man from the imagined scene, back into the bright day. “Gideon’s got the lists and is on his way to pick up Morgan and Elle. I told him we should be ready in about fifteen minutes, okay?”
The younger man looked back toward the student center, nodding slowly. Hotch’s eyes narrowed as he looked for the source of Reid’s fascination. “What?” Hotch asked with irritation in response to the other agent’s blank stare.
“When are we meeting with the victims?” Reid inquired, making eye contact to cement his request.
“Tomorrow; detective Smith gave me their addresses this morning, but Gideon thought it’d be better to give the shock of the Engle case another day to subside,” Hotch elaborated. He waited for an explanation, a reason for Reid’s question. He’d grown accustomed, if not reliant, on the ability of the young genius to deduce seemingly trivial information into concrete data. The team continued to marvel on his intellectual talents.
“I think I know how the UNSUB found his victims,” Reid divulged, as his cell phone rang loudly.
Casually pulling it from his jacket, he noticed Hotch’s slight look of confusion. “It’s the student center, he’s been using it to find them,” Reid furthered, flipping open the device.
“Reid,” he announced, answering the call.
“Dr. Spencer Reid?” a female voice asked hurriedly on the other line.
“Yes?”
“This is court clerk Michelle Watkins calling from the Alexandria location of the U.S. 4th District Court, eastern district of Virginia. This is a follow-up notice that William Lee’s death certificate has been notarized.”
“What?” Reid’s voice was little more than a whisper as he contained his emotions. His eyes darted to Hotch more than forty feet away, wondering if he could hear the panic he carried.
“Yes, the lead investigator in your case, SSA Hotchner, was supposed to sign the notarized copy when he was here last week, but the notary public wasn’t in. We did get his fax early this morning though, so the paperwork is official,” she calmly explained.
“When?” he was barely able to vocalize, his head reeling from the information.
“Let’s see,” she paused, paperwork rustling in the background. “William Lee committed suicide nine days ago, Hotchner signed off that day, and, um… a SSA Gideon witnessed,” she reported, obviously reading the notice.
Reid remained silent for several minutes, comprehending the information. He felt betrayed, hurt that Hotch and Gideon, probably the entire team, had known about Lee’s suicide and had never informed Reid.
Memories of his torture rapidly flashed into his mind as images of Lee’s dead body ingrained themselves into his consciousness. Reid’s hair fell into his eyes as he looked at the ground, coming to grips with the man’s death.
“As I said, this is simply a follow-up call, Dr. Reid,” the clerk reminded suddenly, causing Reid to nearly drop his phone.
“Thank you.” His voice was tight and quiet as he hung up on the woman. Reid neatly closed the cell and slid it back into his pocket as Hotch walked toward him.
“Leg hurting again?” the older agent questioned, concerned eyes watching as Reid deftly swallowed more of the white capsules.
“Something like that,” he responded, grimacing at the bitter taste of the dry Vicodin. Reid cast an angry glare at Hotch, regarding the man in a different light.
Hotch nodded towards Reid’s jacket pocket where the cell phone lay. “Who was that?” he tentatively prompted.
Reid shrugged his shoulders uncaringly, strolling toward the student center. “Wrong number,” he lied.
The sun had begun to set behind the drawn heavy curtains as the fan automatically kicked on, swirling the still room air. A table lamp had been turned on; its shade, layered with dust and dirt from other occupants, cast the room in a yellow haze.
Blank eyes stared back from the reflection in the television screen in front of him. He cocked his head, curious of the life of the person before him.
Reid saw himself as scrawny, weak and pathetic. Yet, his bruises and burns were barely noticeable, and hidden scars were all that remained of his gun shot wounds. “Is this how the team sees me?” he wondered aloud sadly, taking in his mirror image.
Of course it is, boy, Lee’s vindictive voice leered in his ear. Reid cringed at the words his mind created. It’s how I see you too, Spencer.
That’s why I picked you; it’s why I choose you. But you knew that Spence, you’ve understood that from the beginning. They don’t give you enough credit.
Reid cupped his slender hands around his ears, desperately trying to muffle Lee’s malicious accusations. His elbows hit his knees as he leaned forward, his eyes tightly closed, wishing the intrusion away. Lee’s condescending laugh mocked Reid’s efforts.
You know that won’t work Spence, I’m in your subconscious. You can’t just tune me out like you do the others.
“Stop it, please,” Reid quietly begged of his inner self, not releasing the grip on his head. His plea was met with an amused chuckle. Lee’s voice remained soft and restrained.
That bothers you, doesn’t it? You don’t want to be reminded of the times you’ve failed your team, your family, and yourself, do you Dr. Reid? But you remember their looks when they found you, hmm? After what Matthew did to you, I can’t say I blame them. In fact, I’m amazed they’re still speaking to you considering you gave Gideon up.
“But I didn’t tell you anything!” Reid defended with wide and terrified eyes, jumping to his feet in panic. He began pacing in front of the bed, limping only slightly without his cane.
Can you be so sure? his subconscious plagued, forcing Reid to severely doubt himself. You remember the terrible beating Matthew gave you that first day Spence? You were so close then, so ready for the pain to end, so weak and fragile. I broke you and you don’t even remember; how appropriate.
“You’re not even real, I’m imagining this,” Reid whispered, his voice shaking as tears welled in his eyes from the guilt.
His mind raced to find a textbook entry he had read years ago in a psychology course. “Suppressed memories and feelings never stay buried, often resurfacing at inconvenient times causing more emotional trauma,” he read to himself, seeing the page of the forgotten book.
He knew it was all in his mind, the words a representation of the blame he felt in his subconscious. It was the reason he mentally berated himself with Lee’s voice, torturing himself further, punishing himself for his weakness. He had refused to allow himself to come to grips with his captivity, and, after learning of Lee’s suicide, his mind had had enough.
I’m real because you make me real Spencer! Lee suddenly exclaimed angrily. I couldn’t even stand you, and had to put myself out of my misery; I can’t even imagine how the others do it every day. No wonder your precious Hotch didn’t tell you about my death. Think of Gideon and him, running themselves into the ground for you, searching for you, defending you, protecting you- if only they knew the true Spencer.
“Stop,” Reid insisted, his hands beginning to shake from the psychological torture. He stopped pacing abruptly as his large orbs silently glimpsed the prescription bottle resting on the dresser beside the television.
That’s right Spence, take the pills, don’t listen to the truth. Run away again.
Hesitant and trembling fingers gently wrapped around the orange bottle. He removed two of the Vicodin pills, glancing at the mirror before him. Reid’s lean frame stared back with disgust. His sunken eyes followed a healing gash on his forehead, reminding him of Matthew’s passion for blunt objects.
Reid hated what he saw, repulsed at the sickly reflection. His self-hatred grew as he swallowed the capsules.
You’re developing a tolerance to those pills boy. I won’t be drowned away that easy.
He forced his eyes closed as he stood leaning against the television. One hand, still clutching the pill bottle, rested on top the box; the other slid down the empty screen, searching for the power button. Seconds later static discharge popped across the monitor and the local news anchor announced the day’s happenings.
Reid’s nimble fingers switched channels, his ears waiting for a station that would bombard them with deafening noise to placate his inner turmoil. Rock music suddenly blasted from the screen as an old eighties music video played. He backed away satisfied, falling to the bed hard as his knees hit the mattress edge.
How’s it feel, hmm? What’s it like to have nobody you can believe Spencer? To have everyone you know disappointed in you? To be lied to? Tricked? How could you do that to your friends? Hotch knows too, that’s why he doesn’t trust you. And Gideon? I had to find him, remember? He wasn’t even looking for me.
Face it boy, no one likes you and you’re unreliable. They’re going to ask you to leave the bureau.
“Why would he lie to me? Why wouldn’t Hotch tell me Lee killed himself?” Reid murmured, continuing the dialogue with himself.
This is why I choose you Spencer. You’re so easy to manipulate and use. I knew you’d tell me about Gideon.
His long arms reached behind him toward the nightstand. Reid pushed his feet against the beige carpet to gain a few more inches as he grabbed the room phone. Picking up the receiver, he dialed for room service.
“Room 207?” the front desk manager asked. “You’d like room service?”
“Bourbon whiskey,” Reid ordered with a loud huff, mentally willing his mind to stop drudging up the unwanted memories.
“Ah, anything else sir?” the man hesitantly asked. The young investigator hung up the phone in response. He lay in that position for several minutes, his head reeling.
“It’s normal,” he rationalized softly, rubbing away his fatigue. “Dr. Thompson theorized that suppression of events and emotions would cause the subconscious to overload, sending the average person into a state of distress,” Reid remembered a professor’s teachings, soothing his rising panic that he was going insane.
A soft knock at the door jolted his eyes open from near exhaustion. “Room service,” a voice called from the other side.
Reid groaned as he pushed his aching body from the bed, angry that he had allowed himself to fall into emotional disarray.
He roughly pulled the door open, irritated at the requested interruption. Jerking the bottle from the cart, Reid allowed his annoyance to show to the small woman standing before him.
“Would you like a glass?” she checked meekly.
“Don’t need one,” he answered, slamming the door in her face, suddenly uncaring of anyone else.
He returned to the bed with the whiskey in hand. Carefully, he opened the large bottle, old rock music continuing to blast from the set. Reid didn’t hesitate as he brought the liquor to his lips, allowing the vanilla touched liquid to pass over his tongue.
Fighting a cough as the whiskey began burning his mouth and throat, he concentrated on the taste of molasses and honey mixed with mint that slowly made its way to his stomach. He continued gulping, greedily taking in the intoxicating substance until his movements became sluggish and the pressure in his head subsided.
“They lied to me,” he reminded himself, boiling anger not receding. “Hotch knew, knew for over a week, and he didn’t tell me. I trusted him, all of them.”
He fumbled for the remote, intent on engulfing his senses with the harsh melodies emitting from the MTV flashback special. Reid fell back into the yielding blanket, muting his thoughts as he closed his eyes and delicately curled into a ball, the whiskey mere inches from his fingers. I trusted him, he repeated.
“This seems familiar,” Morgan muttered under his breath. “I’m getting the maid to open the door.”
Hotch nodded, tugging at his dark suit jacket impatiently. It was unlike the youngest agent to not answer the door, though the investigator didn’t know what to expect after Morgan had found Reid overdosed on Vicodin a week earlier.
“Open the door, Reid,” he yelled, knocking loudly once again. Hotch was worried, horrid images of Reid in trouble playing in his mind. His tie suddenly became too tight as his heart rate escalated.
“Reid!” he shouted, desperately wanting in the room as Morgan approached with a housekeeper.
“I’m not supposed to do this,” she protested even as she pulled a key from her belt. “I could lose my job.”
“He’s a friend, miss, don’t worry,” Morgan comforted, smiling his assurance. The door beeped as it unlocked, and the two agents hurriedly entered, taking in the room.
Reid was fully clothed, asleep on the bed. Loud music exploded from the television, though it obviously didn’t affect him.
Hotch rushed to the man’s bed, his body still pumping adrenaline from the terror he felt in the hall. Morgan turned the set off and opened the curtains.
“Reid, wake up,” Hotch commanded, relieved when he saw the youngest breathing. Reid groaned loudly, rolling away from the agent.
“We’re late already,” Morgan tried, turning the unaware man onto his back. “C’mon man, you can’t hold up the entire investigation so you can sleep in,” he joked.
Reid cautiously opened his eyes, grimacing at the bright light emanating from the window. “What time is it?” he questioned groggily.
“Past nine in the morning,” Morgan answered, grabbing one of Reid’s arms and pulling him to a sitting position, the entire situation all too familiar.
Reid’s mind swirled, rapidly feeling the affects of a hangover. Alarm overwhelmed him as he remembered finishing the bottle of whiskey and several Vicodin before passing out on the bed the night before.
“Tell Gideon he’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes,” Hotch told Morgan while he helped Reid to stand.
The change in body position caused Reid to grimace as his headache intensified and nausea overwhelmed him. He doubled over, his hands barely catching his upper body weight on his knees. “Scheisse,” he swore as his stomach churned and he hurried to the bathroom, his body still bent as his arms wrapped themselves around his midsection. Seconds later, Reid was grasping the commode, heaving the contents of his stomach into the bowl.
Morgan cast an uneasy glance first toward the closed bathroom door, then to Hotch as he began dialing. “What do I tell him?” he pressed when the phone began ringing.
Hotch listened for a moment, the squeaky bathroom handles turning as the shower came on. “Tell him I forgot something in my room,” he replied rigidly.
Morgan nodded, appreciating the protection the agent was affording Reid. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Five minutes later, Reid emerged from the bathroom, a long towel wrapped around his waist, tucked in at his hip. He was surprised to see Hotch standing at his hotel window. Anger he had tried to drink away the night before flooded back, worsening his headache. He managed to dissuade his body from revealing his feelings as he walked to his suitcase, searching for clothes.
“What the hell are you doing?” Hotch suddenly scolded, exasperated. Reid winced at the loud words as he clutched his head, trying to ward off the pain. Not so loud, he silently begged. Truth was, however, that Hotch’s harsh words hurt Reid more than he expected. His rage, though, soon overpowered his better judgment.
“What?” he asked innocently, noticing the empty whiskey bottle in the trash. Did I throw it away or did Hotch?
“You know what, Reid. This is dangerous; you need to stop. I can’t keep covering for you,” Hotch protested, troubled by the turn his friend had taken. Scars and fading bruises littered Reid’s upper body, evidence of the trauma he had endured. Three bright pink scars from the bullet wounds caused Hotch to inwardly grimace.
Reid’s furious eyes snapped up; he took two long strides and stood directly in front of Hotch, who remained still. “I didn’t ask you to cover for me!” Reid bit out lividly.
“You’re falling apart. I know you’ve been through a lot, but you can’t keep this up,” Hotch warned.
Reid backed off; his nostrils flared as blinding anger sabotaged his reasoning. He returned to his suitcase resting on the luggage rack in the corner of the room, his hands gripping the sides as he fought the welling rage. “Get the hell out of my room,” he voiced in a low, threatening tone.
A small group of detectives waited impatiently in the back room used for the case.
“Derek, finally!” detective Smith announced with a smile at the groups approach. “We thought you’d gone back home.”
Morgan smiled back, “Hey Smithy, I thought I’d take my time this morning. You got any coffee around here?”
“Sure sure, no problem,” he obliged, disappearing from the room.
“So, when are we going to hear this profile?” one of the other detectives asked sarcastically.
“My team’s heading out today to get more information on the UNSUB,” Hotch responded coldly. “Elle, find JJ and see what the press has received from the public on this. Morgan and Reid, I want you two to talk to the victims, look into connections with the student center.”
As the others left the room, Hotch turned to Gideon. “We need to talk.”
“Would you, Hotch? Kid’s been to hell and back; God only knows what those bastards did to him, since he hasn’t talked about it to anyone. And we know his nightmares are worse. I shouldn’t have let him on this case, he’s not ready to be back in the field,” Gideon remarked, frustrated at the circumstances.
Poignant minutes passed by as the two agents silently thought on the youngest, guilt an overwhelming emotion for both.
Gideon leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, his hands supporting his head. His eyes watched the floor carefully. “It never would’ve happened to him if I hadn’t come to Quantico,” he whispered.
Hotch stared at the figure before him, surprised at the vulnerable state the usually strong profiler was in. “It’s not your fault, Gideon,” he soothed, trying to offset the blame. “It had been over twenty years since Lee’s case; you couldn’t have known what he was going to do.”
Gideon sighed heavily, the guilt digging into him like a knife. “Who’s with him now?” he suddenly requested.
“I sent Morgan with him to talk with the victims.”
“Does Reid know about Lee’s suicide yet?” Gideon probed wearily.
“I don’t know. If he doesn’t, it’s going to do more harm to tell him now,” Hotch cautioned.
“Yep, you’re right,” Gideon reluctantly agreed. “But if he does know, and he’s holding onto that, not talking to anyone, he’s going to self-destruct, Hotch.”
The other agent’s head fell forward in defeat at the realization. “We’ve got a case to solve first.”